Across The Universe
by cluelessclown
Summary: "I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times... in life after life, in age after age, forever." Fredrick/Shosanna multi-chapter AU.
1. 70 bC

_**across the universe**_

x.x

"If you wish to be loved, love."

-Seneca

x.x

_Jerusalem, 70 CE._

Marius Fridericus Cordus was not a bad man. You couldn't say he was good, either — after all, there have been very little truly good men in history. But, for a start, he was not a bad man. And that was the reason why he felt tremendously guilty upon viewing the state of the city of Jerusalem after the Roman siege.

"Fridericus, we'd better get moving."

He briefly glanced backwards to look at one of his companions, a slurry drunkard born in Gaul by the name of Claudius Aemilius. They had grown fond of each other over the past months, and he was the closest thing to a friend that Fridericus had known since he left his father's house at the age of sixteen to join the Roman legions. Now, aged twenty-four and successfully having become one of the most skilled centurions fighting alongside the emperor Titus, he had grown confident enough with his tactics and ideas and most importantly had become a quiet, reflective man who hoped to develop a political career once he got back to Rome.

He watched how Aemilius trotted down the besieged streets of Jerusalem, waving happily at the women passing nearby. Everyone, Fridericus noted, had their heads bent low and walked silently, almost unnoticeably. Slim and quiet, those were the Jews they had defeated. He nodded to himself, somehow trying to trust the emperor's words about how the Jews would thank them one day for what they had done; for having released them from the asphyxiating boundaries of their own religion.

He and Aemilius reached a small tavern, where the quirky Gallic said he would invite Fridericus to some wine.

"No, no, I'd rather not," replied Fridericus. "I wish to see a little bit more of the city before we go back to the campsite."

"What are you so fond about anyway?" asked Aemilius, his eyebrows rising. "The whole place is in ruins, Fridericus."

The chestnut-haired centurion shrugged his shoulders. He usually had answers for many of poor Aemilius's questions, but that was one inquiry he could not solve.

"I don't know." His eyebrows rose as a contented sigh escaped his lips. "I just want to see the place before we go back to Rome. It's been said we're ought to return soon."

It was now Aemilius's turn to shrug. "Shall we meet here sometime near dawn, then?" When Fridericus did a faint nod, the Gallic wheeled around and, without saying a word, strutted into the tavern. The Roman did a small chuckle and, in a slow-paced manner, continued walking down the street.

He did not see much over the hour that followed — more near-empty houses and streets, heads bent low and silent mumbles in a language he could not speak a single word of. Although being quite fluent in Greek, Fridericus had never managed to learn proper Hebrew — he had once tried, and he had only been awarded with a scornful look from the mayor in charge of his troop upon greeting one of his comrades with a vague _shalom_.

He arrived to the ruins of the Temple of Jerusalem a while later. It was decaying, almost non-existant, but it shimmered with the gloomy brightness of a place that has once emanated greatness. He guessed the menorah hadn't been delivered back to the temple by the Roman legionaries who had cruelly taken it away. He stood arm-crossed, staring at the ruins with a slight frown on his brow. He silently wondered how would his fellow Romans react if the Temple of Jupiter were to be destroyed by an outlandish army of red-dressed soldiers carrying weapons they had never even heard about. He guessed it would have been severely criticized by many of the city's historians: the people of Rome would grieve in the streets and the emperor would seek revenge.

But what were the Jews doing? Absolutely nothing. They just stood there, accepting their fate as the defeated and clenching their teeth in silence upon their defeaters. They would all soon be forgotten, long-lost in some mine in the north of Africa, or bleeding their hands out to build emperor Titus's new amphitheater. Their defiance, their brave upstanding to the Roman attack would be long gone and forgotten; and in the Roman empire a thousand years later no-one would remember those poor women who grieved the loss of their menorah or the little boys rushing down the streets away from the Roman soldiers tantalizing them.

Another sigh escaped Fridericus's lips as he glanced up at the sky.

It was then when his eyes first landed on a pair of green eyes watching him carefully a few yards away.

He frowned lightly at the sight of the young girl looking at him. She looked like nothing he had seen in Jerusalem before; her skin was almost as pale as his and her hair and eyes were light-coloured. She would have been easily mistaken with a Roman girl had it not been for the typical Jewish dress she wore. The sight of her astounded Fridericus to the marrow, and for a moment he could not move. The first thought that rushed through his head was that she was breathtakingly beautiful.

"_Quid est hoc, Romani?_" she said only a little later. "What are you looking at, Roman?"

Fridericus was taken aback by the mocking tone in her voice and the fact that she spoke his language fluently.

"I am sorry," he quickly apologized. "I did not intend to seem rude."

"You did not. You simply looked dumbfounded." the girl shrugged her arms with a calm expression on her face.

"Now, did I?" He couldn't help but feel quite amused by the girl's ease. It reminded him of some young women he used to know back in Rome. "What are you doing here? It seems as though it won't be long until dawn."

The girl trotted nearer, a resigned yet slightly cold expression on her face. For reasons Fridericus understood, she had decided to keep her distance.

"My father allowed me to go to the market and I am on my way there." She spoke like she was hiding something from Fridericus. He was not sure he liked that.

"All by yourself?" One of his eyebrows rose.

She shrugged. "He's — permissive."

"Oh, I see." nodded Fridericus. He tilted his head and looked at her for a moment before adding, "Should I help you get there just in case?"

The girl did not seem pleased by his offer. She narrowed her eyes at him, her arms crossed and her expression suddenly deceitful. "Why should I? You're a Roman."

"Well, aren't you?" he replied, perhaps a bit too coolly. When the girl shook her head, his frown deepened. "But you speak perfect Latin. And you look completely different from everyone else around here."

Once again, the girl shrugged. "My father lived in Italy for a few years, and he met my mother there. He always says I'm her spitting image, although I can hardly remember her face." She ran her fingers through her blonde locks absentmindedly and Fridericus couldn't help but thing that she was definitely the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She then looked back at him with firm green eyes. "But I don't like legionaries. Not after what you did to our people and our temple."

Fridericus's frown deepened and he looked at the girl with slight angriness in his face for a second. He then reminded himself of what he had thought about the temple only a few moments ago, and his expression relaxed. Unlike many of his fellow centurions, he did not despise Jews — he believed in the Roman Gods, of course, but he didn't think those belonging to different religions were to be treated unequally.

"It might comfort you to know that I did not leave the campsite all throughout the siege. I fell sick the day before our troops thrust into the city, and did not leave my bed until two days ago."

"That, I am afraid, will not change much." The girl shrugged her arms yet again and glanced at him with a cold expression.

Fridericus sighed. "Will you at least let me know your name?"

She looked up at him, for once not looking upset or angry.

"Shosanna." She replied quietly. "Shoshanna ben Ishmael."

He nodded. "I am guessing you don't really care, but my name is Marius Fridericus Cordus. But I am almost always called Fridericus."

Now it was Shosanna's time to nod. She took a few moments to study Fridericus with a critical eye that worried the Roman slightly until she nodded again.

"Yes, you may help me get to the market. I suppose it's dangerous for a woman to walk down these streets alone, being so close to dawn."

Fridericus did a small smile and nodded enthusiastically. "Very well then, on we go."

And so both of them set off to the market. Fridericus vaguely wondered what would his mates think if they found out he was having a solid conversation with a Jewess — at first he didn't bother giving it much thought, but he would later ponder it feverishly over the night. The girl, on the other hand, did not seem all too eager to be around him. She just walked quietly, arms fastened around her middle and an absent expression on her face.

When they finally reached the market, Shosanna quietly muttered that she needed to fetch some apples for her father. Food was running short all around Jerusalem, which made prices go through the roof. That was precisely why Shosanna found herself arguing with the seller about the apples' exorbitant prices. Fridericus, though worried, limited himself to a viewer position until the seller interjected in a rather dreadful Latin.

"Methinks the woman wants apples cheap because she friend with Roman!"

Shosanna's first instinct was to glare back at Fridericus, but she then turned back at the seller and growled a few words in Hebrew. Fridericus, perplexed, furrowed his brow at the man and decided to intercede.

"Excuse me, but I am merely escorting this young lady," he replied in the finest Latin he could manage. "I believe she was demanding for a fairer price. Which I might as well agree on — _Edepol!_ These bloody apples are all brown and rotten."

"No business of you, Roman." scowled the seller, who then turned back to Shosanna with an angry note in his voice and started reprimanding her in Hebrew. The girl couldn't do anything but nod quietly, yet angrily, as the man rambled on.

It took everyone in the market a few seconds to realize that Fridericus had punched the seller right in the face.

Shosanna gasped at the sight of the seller's bleeding nose, while Fridericus ruffled his hands against his uniform with a smug expression on his face. The people standing around in tents nearby immediately swirled around and quietly gaped at the Roman who had bothered defending a Jewess, their fearful minds suddenly blown by such an idea. Fridericus's eyebrows rose, still clasping the seller's robe in his hand tightly.

"Will you give the lady her apples for a reasonable price, _stultus_?" His voice came out as an angry, low growl. Within a few moments, the seller handed Shosanna his best apples and offered them for an amazingly low price.

The girl, glaring scornfully at both men, handed the money over and spun around with the basket on her arm and an angry expression set across her face. Fridericus, now more confused than ever, followed her after dropping the seller.

"Shosanna. Shosanna. _Shosanna_!" He caught her arm with a frown on his face a few minutes later, in a small street quite away from the market. He looked at her with an angry expression. "I just helped you. Why would you leave like that?"

"I can do things by myself," the girl mumbled, her gaze low. "And anyway — you acted like such a _brute_ back there."

"A — a _brute_?" Fridericus's frown deepened as he crossed his arms. "Shosanna, I was only trying to help you." The girl did a snort, to which he sighed and shook his head. "I — for Ariadne's webs, I meant no wrong."

"You meant no wrong but you hit that man in the face anyway," she rolled her eyes disdainfully and then shrugged. "A Roman thing, I suppose."

Fridericus glared at her angrily. He tried to convince himself that it was best to leave at that very moment and never see that girl again, but he somehow realized a few moments later that he could not let go of her that easily. The devious girl had somehow crept into him in less than a couple of hours, and he found himself incapable of simply letting her leave.

"I — I'm sorry, Shosanna. I meant no harm with what I did." He finally grumbled, as he was not used to apologizing, much less to a woman and a Jewess. But he did mean it, so he nodded and added, "May I escort you home?"

He glanced at Shosanna with a pleading, rather childish expression on his face. The girl did a sigh, but finally nodded. Fridericus couldn't help but smile ever so meekly, his hands once again on his back and his eyes quietly glancing at the girl every now and then. Shosanna, on the other hand, walked quickly and relishing on the night creeping down at them to steal a glance at the soldier more often than she should have. They arrived at the girl's house about twenty minutes later.

"Well. We're here." The girl eyed him carefully, her arms crossed. "Thank you, Fridericus Cordus."

"It's been a pleasure, Shosanna ben Ishmael." The man smiled lightly, nodding his head. He looked at her for a moment, and then slowly added. "Will I get to see you soon?"

Shosanna looked at him with an odd expression on her face. In the end, however, she nodded quietly. "Yes. Yes, you might see me again. Soon, I suppose — the city isn't that big."

Fridericus beamed. "Very well then! Let's hope we get to meet soon." He paused and, after nodding his head once again, whispered. "Good-night, Shosanna ben Ishmael."

The girl allowed herself to smile for the first time that evening and stood on her tiptoes to press a very brief kiss to his cheek. "Good-night, Marius Fridericus Cordus."

And with that, the girl spun around and walked towards the door, leaving Fridericus all by himself in the midst of the Israeli night. He smiled rather goofily at the reminiscence of the kiss, his hand touching the place where the girl's lips had graced his cheek only a few seconds ago. He could still smell her scent, see her smile — it was nearly unconceivable for him to think that they had only spent together a couple of hours. He crossed his arms, a broad grin on his face, only to remember that he had agreed meeting Aemilius back at the tavern a few hours earlier. He decided to head off towards there, silently wondering if he would really get to see the devious Shosanna ben Ishmael again.

What he did not know then was that he would see her for the rest of his stay in Jerusalem, for the rest of the days until his return to Rome; for the rest of his life.

But for that night, he was just a young man with the new, freshly acquired condition of lover.

* * *

_this will be a multi-chapter collection of one-shots set in different periods of time, featuring different «alter-egos» of the _Inglorious Basterds_ characters Shosanna Dreyfus and Fredrick Zöller. hope you enjoyed the first chapter, I shall have the following one ready soon enough._

_-cluelessclown._


	2. 1832

"Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination."

-Voltaire

x.x

_Paris, 1832._

A sharp yell numbed his ears.

"_Lamarque is dead!_"

Frédéric Zola remained quiet for a few moments. His colleagues glanced around the room with unsettled expressions on their faces, silently mouthing at each other words that Frédéric couldn't catch with the shock of the moment. One of them, who was known as the leader and Humanities student Antoine Maraval, finally rose from his seat and scanned the group of students with a firm expression on his cold hazel eyes. They were all young, and therefore thirsty for knowledge, thirsty for growing older, thirsty for the forthcoming events that would change their lives forever. After studying his comrades for a few moments, he finally spoke the words they were all, amongst which Frédéric could be found, most eager to hear.

"Brothers in arms, I know General Lamarque's death is definitely a painful loss for all of those who countersign his postulates about liberty and freedom in this country of ours. But let us give this event a second thought — perhaps Lamarque's death is not a dead end, but a pinprick point on the map of our lives. I say this is God's signal to let us know that we're ready and in our duty to show Louis Philippe d'Orléans that we will not follow his game and his rules any longer."

"And how, in the name of creeping Christ, are we meant to show the king what you're saying, Maraval?" The slurry voice of a student who had taken perhaps a couple more shots of absinthe than he should came out as an angry yell as he slammed his fist against the table. "I'm not being pessimistic, but this is no 1789. The times, they've changed. And they're darker, you know."

Antoine Maraval remained silent as his thumb rubbed against his chin thoughtfully. He briefly glanced at the table where his closest friends sat — Frédéric Zola, Isaac Hocquard and Michel Finnet, that was. The three of them nodded at him supportingly and, within a few moments, Antoine set back to his speech as if nothing had happened.

"I believe it is now the time to rise, regardless of what some sceptics may believe — and that is precisely what we will do. We're bound to gather up with more students, set a proper revolution — not unlike our grandfathers did, as our comrade over there previously said, on 1789." He paused for a few moments, his lips curling into a small smile as he observed the eager expressions on most of the students' faces. His voice then soared up to an enthusiastic cry. "Who is with me?"

Most of the students burst into content cheers as their glasses slammed against the tables once again. There were quite a few of them who seemed particularly eager to follow Antoine's plan — amongst those was Frédéric, who observed everything with a broad grin on his face as he felt how Antoine patted his back happily. A few students hastily offered the leader their thoughts and ideas, and within a few minutes they had all agreed to meet at Lamarque's funeral so as to begin the uprising.

"Everything's looking neat, eh?" asked Isaac Hocquard blithely as he took a generous sip from his cognac. The student, a couple of years younger than the rest of the group, was known for having a knack for both Mathematics and all sorts of alcoholic drinks.

"It definitely does," nodded Frédéric enthusiastically, sitting between the leader and the young mathematician. He took a sip from his wine and then glanced at Antoine. "So, Lamarque's funeral. I suppose it's an iconic date."

"It is," answered Antoine, looking just as enthusiastic. "We're so close to bringing them down, lads. I can almost feel it."

"Can you, now?" asked Michel Finnet, recently-graduated lawyer, with a broad grin on his face. He then glanced down at his pocket watch and sighed quietly. "Uh, I must be leaving now. Hélène said she would be home by seven."

"Where has she been?" asked Frédéric, his eyebrows rising quietly.

"Went to the doctor with her mother and had dinner with her. They're both really excited about — you know, the _baby_." Michel's brow furrowed in what seemed like slight worry, as if wondering what would become of his soon-to-come child once he set foot on the devious place they called their hometown, the Paris of 1832. Said that, he stood up from his chair and cast one last warm smile at his friends. "Well, see you tomorrow."

"See you, Finnet," Antoine bid him off with a warm smile and, when the young lawyer had finally left the café, the leader of the group let out a slight sigh. "Poor Michel. Do you think he will pull through leaving his house and joining us? I'm afraid the weight of an upcoming baby might put him off somehow."

"Now, Michel is one of the bravest men in this group. I'm sure he won't hesitate, Antoine." Isaac took one final sip from his drink and then shrugged. "I should leave, too. I've an exam tomorrow and monsieur Levet is known to be extremely persnickety while correcting them. _Donc, je pars._" And with that, he stood up from his chair and bid his friends goodbye with a broad smile. "We will bring peace and equality to our country, of that I'm sure!"

"_Dieu vous garde,_Isaac Hocquard." said the leader, smiling kindly at the younger student. He then eyed Frédéric with a content expression on his face. "And what about you, my oldest friend? You will be joining us, right?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I will." Frédéric nodded, as though thinking of something quite far away from Antoine's utopian revolution. He drummed his fingers against the table distractedly, glancing up at the ceiling boards.

Antoine frowned. "You _suppose_ you will?"

Frédéric glanced back at his friend and shrugged lightly, looking only a bit embarrassed by the befuddled look that was shot at him by his friend.

"I, um. I'd have to tell Shosanna." He finally mused, rubbing his scruff with his knuckles absentmindedly.

"So you two are a thing now." Antoine's smile broadened, nudging his friend in a friendly manner.

Frédéric's cheeks seemed to burn bright red as he averted his eyes and shook his head ever so meekly. "No, Antoine, we're not. But I want her to know, just in case I don't come back."

Antoine's friendly expression seemed to vanish within a few seconds. He frowned. "You haven't even _told_ her? You've fancied her for ages now, Fréd."

"I — I know." gusted the other, frowning lightly. "I just haven't found the right moment to tell her yet."

"Frédéric, for _Christ's sake_." The Humanities student placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, eyeing him carefully. "I shouldn't be saying this at all because I do not believe in all that love rubbish that Michel keeps on rambling about — but really, I think that if you never try you'll never know how the poor girl feels about you."

Frédéric did a discontented sigh, shaking his head. "Antoine, you've seen her — she's the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen. And she's funny, nice, smart . . . Good Lord, I stand no chance. Besides, she's Jewish. Her father would never let her marry someone like _me_."

"Oh, for God's sake." Antoine rolled his eyes. "Frédéric — you're going to battle for your country in a few days. I know it's not a nice thought, but we might not even make it through. Do you really want to make a decision without knowing how she feels? It's not like you have to marry her or anything — just letting her know would do."

Frédéric remained silent for a few moments, pondering his friend's words in his head. Most of the students had already left the café, and the streets were already being filled with that gloomy air of an ending day.

"I suppose you're right," he shrugged. "I'll tell her. Somehow."

A small smile tugged on the corner of Antoine's lips as he patted his friend's back. "That's great, Fréd."

Frédéric sighed quietly as he reluctantly shook his head. He wished he could be just as confident about Shosanna as Antoine was about his dear revolution.

x.x

Shosanna Dreyfus was the eldest of Doctor Dreyfus's children. She was a blonde, slender girl on her early twenties whose life up until May of 1832 had been good enough regardless of the misery in the streets of Paris that enraged her so much. Her father was one of the most well-known doctors of the city and, despite being Jewish, he had earned the Dreyfus family a privileged position in the Parisian society of the king Louis-Philippe d'Orléans. They had always lived in a spacious, bourgeois-y apartment near the Boulevard Saint-Germain, with Shosanna rafting through the house with heaps of books in her hands — in spite of what her numberless governesses had reproached her plenty of times, _you're a lady, not a librarian!_ — and her little brother Amos racing his way down the halls with a wooden sword in his hand and a joyous smile on his face.

Frédéric Zola had moved to that very building around two years earlier. He had been living in Nantes until then — son of a wealthy banker, he had been sent of to the capital of the country to study Economics and follow his father's steps in the Parisian Stock Exchange. Frédéric had never really enjoyed Economics or the whole concept of studying what his father wished him to altogether, but he couldn't complain. He lived in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and he had gotten to know plenty of interesting people over there — the first one being young Shosanna Dreyfus, of course.

They had first met a week after Frédéric arrived to Paris, when the young man was still trying to figure out how his keys worked. The girl, although amused by the situation, had ended up asking if he needed help. It was then when Frédéric first noticed that she was actually his nextdoor neighbour — and really, to say he became infatuated with her at first sight would not be enough. The girl had to repeat her question in order for the Economics student to stop staring at her blissfully pale skin and her green eyes. In the end, he had nodded quietly and, with the girl's help, he had managed to get into his house.

After that, Shosanna and Frédéric met almost daily. They usually jumped into each other when they came back home — he from university, she from shopping or visiting her friends — or when Frédéric decided to wander around the building on warm summer nights.

Such was the night of the first of June, 1832. Frédéric arrived at 32 rue du Faubourg a short while after leaving Antoine at his house. He was calmly strutting up the stairs, silently pondering his friend's words about Shosanna, when he heard how a voice calling him from the top of the staircase.

"Monsieur Zola."

He looked up to find Shosanna waving at him, a meek smile on her face as he trotted up the steps to reach her position. However, when he was just about to arrive, he tripped over with the last step and fell over.

"_Putain_," he cursed in a nervous mumble as he stood up, his face red from both the smack he had just earned himself and the embarrassment he felt when he realized Shosanna had seen it all. He glanced at the girl with a rather nervous expression and finally muttered, "_Bonne nuit_, Shosanna."

"_Bonne nuit_, Frédéric." There was a small smile on her face, although she seemed only slightly worried about what had just happened. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said Frédéric quickly, a faint blush still present on his cheeks. "I — I'm a bit clumsy, that's all."

The smile on Shosanna's lips broadened and Frédéric couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not. "Well, as long as you don't lose your keys," she teased, raising her eyebrows. She then shrugged her shoulders. "Are you heading home now?"

"Y-yes, I suppose I am." nodded Frédéric, his mouth slightly agape at the sight of the girl's smile.

"Oh. I was going to get some fresh air up at the roof. I was wondering if you'd like to join me, but it's okay if you just want to go home — "

"No, no!" replied Frédéric hurriedly, shaking his head. "I'd love to join you up there. It's quite warm anyway, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is." Shosanna nodded and, though cautiously, ended up taking his hand so as to make him follow her upstairs. "Let's go."

Frédéric blushed again at the girl's touch, but of course didn't complain. It wasn't the first time the girl took his hand that way — it wasn't a common gesture, of course, but she had held his hand a few times before. They both walked upstairs and, once they got to the roof of the building, sat down carefully on the semi-tilted tiling roof, Frédéric securely grasping her in case she slipped. Once they were set and comfortable, the girl wrapped her arms around her legs and observed the city with a faint smile on her face.

"I love Paris. I really do." She glanced at Frédéric. "Do you like it here better than in Nantes?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded several times as though affirming that he did, in fact, enjoy Paris very much. "Paris is such a great city. I wish I'd lived here for longer."

"Well, you've got a lot of time left. You're young and healthy, and from what I've gathered you've a brilliant future ahead of you." The girl smiled kindly as she observed him. "Plus, you're really nice."

Frédéric smiled shyly at that last bit. "You're really nice too, Shosanna." He saw how a smile appeared on the girl's face, he ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous expression. He thought of what Antoine had told him — how he needed to tell Shosanna how he felt just in case something happened at Lamarque's funeral. He took a deep breath and eyed her carefully before saying ever so quietly, "I — Shosanna, there's something I need to tell you."

The girl, who had been watching the inky, empty streets of the city until a moment before, glanced back at him and offered him a kind smile, oblivious to what the young man was just about to say. "What is it, Frédéric?"

"Well." The Economics student gazed up at the sky, letting out a short sigh. He didn't know how to say it but, as Antoine had put it, it was now or never. "I — I've known you for so long, Shosanna. You — you're a really sweet girl. And you're smart, too. Brilliant, I'd say . . . I haven't met anyone who's read any more books than you, aside from Antoine. And that's definitely saying something." He chuckled quietly. "You know, I've grown quite fond of you. We've talked a lot, particularly on nights like this one, when we would come upstairs and escape the warmth of our beds just to stare up at the sky and be fools together. Well, not you, but at least _I_ was a fool most of the time. Because I couldn't even speak my mind properly." He quietly enveloped Shosanna's hand in his, and lowered his voice to a faint whisper.

"The truth is, Shosanna Dreyfus, that I think I have fallen for you just a little bit."

He gazed up at the girl with a nervous expression, expecting her to snort and laugh at him or to simply slap him across the face and leave. Instead of that, he found that a smile had creeped up to her lips as she studied him with a blissfully charming expression.

"That's nice," she finally mused, her voice even softer than usually. Frédéric felt as though his ears were filled by some sort of celestial music. He looked at the girl with a shy smile on his face as she unwittingly leaned forward, her shoulder rubbing against his. "Because, Frédéric Zola, I was wondering what was holding you back from letting that out."

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks. "I — was it too obvious?"

"Oh, no," the girl did a small smile as she shook her head. "But I suppose I _really_ wanted you to say something of the sort."

Frédéric's eyebrow rose, the young Economics student more lost than ever. "Why so?"

"Oh, for God's sake," the girl sighed, a nervous smile now on her face. She leaned forward and pressed a short kiss to the man's lips. "Can't you see, Frédéric Zola?"

"I suppose I can now." A broad grin appeared on Frédéric's lips as he looked at her with the most adoring look that had ever set eyes on Shosanna Dreyfus — because really, no-one had loved her before, at least the way Frédéric did at that time. He slowly leaned closer towards her, pressing his forehead against hers as the goofiest smile he could manage tugged the corners of his mouth. He knew the following days would be tough, impossible even, but for that night he had her. That was more than he could have ever imagined.

And so, with an unsettling easiness, he leaned forward and kissed her again.

x.x

Shosanna had cried when he told her about what was going to happen on the day of Lamarque's funeral. She had screamed, she had kicked a streetlamp, she had hit him angrily on the chest. And he had kissed her on the lips, on the forehead, on the scruff. He had held her and told her that everything was going to be all right, but Shosanna didn't believe it.

Because of course, Frédéric would reflect afterwards, she was much smarter than him.

They had been together for less than a week. Just a few days, feverishly enjoyed by two people who were not ready to let go of the other. Shosanna went home late and rose early to go see him. He, on the other hand, refused to go to class anymore. What for? Someone fighting for a new country needed not worry about such mundane issues. He and Shosanna either stayed home or walked the streets of Paris together, enjoying the presence of the other and relishing on the little time they had left together. As dark as the situation may have been, Frédéric would always remember the days prior to Lamarque's funeral as the happiest of his life. The night before the uprising, Shosanna did not go home. She and Frédéric spent the entire night exploring each other, grasping those last hours as if they were their last puffs of breath.

That, of course, was the night that they made love for the first and last time.

It was the strangest of feelings. At first it was so tender, so sweet it seemed as though the feeling of bliss that filled them both would never end. It later became rougher, but that only made them feel more engaged to one another. Frédéric's bed was a tangle of legs, kisses and groans for as long as they could both keep up, but the moment was followed by an unearthly silence that was finally broken by the faint sound of Shosanna's soft cries. Frédéric, without saying a word, had wrapped his arms around her middle and pressed soft kisses to the back of her neck until she finally fell asleep. He, however, didn't manage to sleep at all.

He had left before dawn that morning, leaving her asleep and alone on the bed. All that had happened later on seemed all too irrelevant to him — all that he could think of as he fought of the royal guard at Antoine Maraval's orders was the sight of Shosanna's soft green eyes and the small smile on her face the night he had told her he loved her. And that was what helped him to carry on fighting — but at the same time, it was what broke him inside even more.

Two days later, he could hardly say he had any strength left for fighting at all.

He held his rifle tightly, as though clenching the last strain of life that was left inside him. Because really, there was nothing else he could do at that time. He had fought bravely, in a way that would have made the old revolutionaries proud. But at the same time he couldn't help but feel extremely foolish. Disenchanted, even. They had expected Heaven and all they had gotten was a grotesque scenario emulating a never-ending Hell. Half of his friends were dead now, and the royal guard was slaughtering those who hadn't perished yet. He was amongst the latter — he had just seen young Isaac Hocquard fall to the ground, his body limp and his expression contorted by pain. He pressed his body against the walls of the café, silently wishing for the oppressive ache on his chest to end.

He was found by the royal guard only a little later. His legs trembled, his expression was that of a man who is already dead, and his chest was more than ready to receive his foe's angry bullets. He couldn't even hide himself anymore — all he wished was for Shosanna to be all right, and that she would enjoy a long and prosper life in a free Paris. A free Paris that he would never be able to see, but that he hoped she would construct one day.

She and, what he did not know, the little life that was being carried inside her. The little life that would one day bear his eyes, his hands, his ears. The little living proof that Frédéric's life hadn't been useless. No revolution can match the importance of loving and what blossoms from it.

After all, loving her was perhaps the greatest thing he had accomplished in his entire life.

"_Au revoir, Shosanna_." He whispered as he gallantly, though regretfully, dropped his rifle.

Frédéric closed his eyes and he did not see black, but green.

* * *

_I know it's been over a month — busy busy uninspired me — but I promise the next one will come sooner. This chapter, as you may have guessed, was heavily influenced by Les Misérables. Hope you enjoyed it._

_-cluelessclown._


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